Kamala on the Couch
by HumanDictionary
Summary: A childhood adventure comes full circle for Child Psychologist Dr. Arnold Shortman as he deals with his latest patient Kamala Love. (Continuation of my "Nostalgia Act" arc from Life Beyond the Jungle)
1. Ah, My Beloved Beach

As Dr. Arnold Shortman exited Riverside Highway towards the sleepy shore town of Spencer Beach, all the memories came flooding out like water from a broken pipe. While vacationing as children over summer break, he and Helga Pataki wound up not only participating in a sandcastle contest but winning the grand prize; a walk-on role on the later of the two's favorite TV series Babewatch filmed right there on the town's beach.

Of course, that was just the simplified version of their brush with small screen fame.

Arnold had initially hoped to enter the sand castle contest alongside some local girl with whom he fell head over heels for while on his trip only to find out through Helga (who had spent the week sabotaging any quality time the two of them shared) that said local girl was in actuality a duplicitous and fame-hungry snake who saw Arnold as a means to jumpstart her acting career.

While turning onto Ocean Avenue, it hit Arnold like a ton of bricks just how blessed he and his wife Helga were in terms of life stories that being on a hit television series was something they could nonchalantly say happened to them. For a child psychologist, he (and her) had been privileged to embark on many more adventures, some of which could, in all fairness, dwarf being on Babewatch. Yet while neither sought to further cash in on their fifteen minutes of fame as child actors, it wasn't like Arnold and Helga lived in a bubble; their episode became an instant favorite among many die-hard Babewatch fans (owing to both the chemistry they shared on screen as well as the latter of the two's brashness) and as such, they would receive and turn down the occasional call/e-mail from pop-culture conventions looking for C and below list celebs to sign autographs and do meet-and-greets.

But all in all, life went on quietly for the Shortmans and their daughters Eleanor and Cecile. Helga enjoyed modest success as a YA writer and Arnold succeeded his de-facto mother in law Dr. Bliss in helping troubled children cope with the issues they faced.

And it was in that spirit that he had driven an hour and a half away from his office in Hillwood and made this return to Spencer Beach; a fact driven home all the more by the presence of police cruisers and the officers that escorted him into the town's junior high school once he finally reached his destination.


	2. Ocean Avenue Jr High

"Dr. Shortman."

Arnold entered the office of Principal Joseph McLeod, an orderly workplace, save for the busted window. He shook hands with the lanky administrator in a blazer, golf shirt and jeans as well as a plump Hispanic woman who introduced herself as Miranda Jimenez, an English/homeroom teacher at Ocean Avenue Jr. High.

"I assume traffic was bearable."

"Relatively." Arnold replied. "Though it is strange that you'd call for someone miles and miles away."

"Well, we heard that you're the best and…we can't exactly take our chances with this one."

Principal McLeod pulled out an overflowing manila folder and continued to speak as Dr. Shortman gingerly thumbed through its contents. Paper-clipped to the folder's exterior was the photograph of a scowling preadolescent girl whose very presence screamed 'help'. Conduct report after conduct report testified to a long pattern of attempting to escape the school, vandalism of personal/school property, as well as too many elaborate and bizarre verbal threats to count. Cementing her ferocious disposition were stacks upon stacks upon stacks of notebooks which contained deeply disturbing doodles and short stories practically oozing with detailed acts of violence.

"Her name is Kamala Love, age 12, a fifth grader in Mrs. Jimenez's class." Principal McLeod continued gesturing to the educator. "She shows a great deal of rage far from typical in a child of her peer group and a history of behavioral problems since the third grade."

"Mhm." Arnold replied as he continued scanning through the stack of papers handed to him. "I kind of got that by the fifth time she mentioned a river of blood running through the hallway. How and why exactly did you not alert any legal authorities sooner?"

"Because for the most part, Kamala has kept her rage confined to words." Mrs. Jimenez replied. "She's anti-social, but up to now has done nothing to physically back up her rage. Mostly her mother has been our primary contact in situations like this."

From the corner of his eye, Arnold could see Principal McLeod inhale deeply and make a face akin to holding in a massive fart during a funeral.

"Whom, speaking of which, still has yet to-"

As of by hackneyed writing, the door to his office swung open. Scowling in the threshold was a blonde and fit woman in her early to mid-thirties. While she could still turn enough heads, life clearly had left on her its fair share of wear and tear. She took off her large overcoat revealing a white lifeguard-style tank top and red booty shorts dedicated to a Babewatch themed eatery in town. Dr. Shortman quickly ascertained that her name was Summer courtesy of the nametag pinned to her left breast.

"Ah, Miss Love." Principal McLeod says hiding his displeasure. "Welcome to my office."

"Principal McLeod, a pleasure." Summer responds with gritted teeth. "Miranda, and…?"

"Dr. Shortman." The young man replies. "Dumb question, but have we met before?"

"Depends on whether or not you've been to the Babewatch Café." She responds.

"I've seen the show, my wife was a fan way back…(ahem!) Anyway, we're here because of Kamala."

"Of course." Summer snarls. "What the hell did she do now?"

"Well," Miranda Jimenez began. "We seem to think Kamala shows signs of aggression-"

"She's a teenage girl, what do you expect?"

A mangled spiral-bound notebook is placed on the desk followed by two additional overflowing manila folders, and math sheet with a 98 dated last week.

"Kamala's writing seems to be quite…vivid to say the least." Mrs. Jimenez continued. "I've always seemed to be quite fond of her assessments in class, and how she ties together her life with the main characters of a given novel. I've even entertained some of her more…um…_creative_ works in spite of the detailed levels violence she seems to pepper them with. Again, I've always believed that creativity shouldn't have to be sunshine and lollipops as long as what you write doesn't translate into the real world…"

"_OK now get to the point._" Summer thought.

"-but today after math class, she was bought to my office after a group of girls mocked her in the bathroom." Principal McLeod continued. "Apparently, they weren't too happy with her receiving the best grade on a recent quiz and a brawl broke out between the four of them. Her absence in this office is a result of her escaping-"

"-Which brings us to this little collection before you." Dr. Shortman finished. "Threats against specific students, threats against the school, threats against you and a Sandy Colfax. Couple this with her escape and the only recommendation I can make is therapy twice a week. Nothing too intense, but something where we can discuss these anti-social feelings and examine what possible routes to take to make something constructive come from it."

"While this is peachy and all doc, I'm not exactly sneezing gold here, so what pray tell is this going to set me back?"

Shock struck Arnold like a speeding truck; Summer's daughter was in a world of trouble and her first instinct was to haggle over the price of whatever help offered (even if the school district was covering all expenses). With the financial quandaries squared away, Summer flippantly gave her blessing to Kamala's therapy before excusing herself back to work.

"Between you and me, you get used to her." Principal McLeod said after Summer's car peeled out of the parking lot. "She and I were classmates back in the day."

"Really now?"

"Oh yeah. Always made noise about being the next big thing on Babewatch. Even had her eyes on this sand castle contest as a teenager…"


	3. Shotgun

"…_Memories back when she was bold and strong__, __and waiting for the world to come along_…"

Clad in a tye-dye hoodie advertising her hometown, a surly preadolescent girl sneers out the window at all she sees from the front seat of her mother's car. The only movement she has made on the entire trip has been to draw the covering over her face; leaving solely her eyes, burning with the fury of a thousand fires, visible. They peered over the highway, doling out rage on all that passed by. Upon hearing this lyric however, her otherwise inflexible scowl breaks into a Mona-Lisa smile and a clipped acerbic hiss escapes from her nose, serving as a stifled laugh.

"Oh, you got something to say Kamala?" Her mother responds.

Kamala's smile vanishes and her face once again returns to its original state of an acerbic scowl. This time, rather than the trees and road signs, it is now Summer who finds herself the target of her daughter's displeasure. From the corner of her eye, the elder of the two Love women watches as the titanium-withering puss of the younger stares her down.

"Don't give me that look you little bitch. You bought all this on yourself."

In lieu of a response, Kamala rolls her eyes and flips down the hood of her sweatshirt revealing her full head and face; in what could only be irony from the man upstairs, the girl had inherited a great deal from the mother she loathed in the looks department save for two triangles of freckles on the right side of her head (particularly beneath her eye and on her temple). Unlike Summer, however, Kamala's skin was as pale as Queen Anne's Lace and her hair had been half shaven. What remained of it was dyed a deep almost black-ish blue and rested in unkempt layers.

"…Spending my Saturday driving your psycho ass to therapy three hours away…"

"Right, because you had a_ real_ productive day planned out too; Babewatch reruns, cry, some more Babewatch reruns, cry again. Curse those kids that won the sandcastle contest while sucking down some vodka. Cry. Cry. And to top it all off more Babewatch reruns. Hold on I think I got a violin here somewhere."

Kamala felt her mother's hand cracking down across her cheek, an action which caused the car to violently swerve over a lane scrape against the cement divider in the middle of the highway, knocking off the rear-view mirror in the process.

"DAMMIT KAMALA, THAT ATTITUDE OF YOURS ALMOST GOT US KILLED!"

Summer violently pulls into the lot of the gas station and parks the vehicle in the first open spot available. The minute of silence between the two of them feels like eons until Summer icily shattered the silence.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"My rear view mirror is in the middle of the highway."

"Then it must _suck _to be you."

Kamala's acerbic response is met with Summer exiting the car and opening the front passenger door. As Summer returns to her place behind the wheel and gestures towards the highway, it slowly dawns on the preadolescent what her mom is demanding of her.

"You've got. To be. JOKING!"

"Unless you somehow have the money to fix this…" She replied with a cold shrug.

Slowly, Kamala exits her mother's car and meanders toward the edge of the highway. She finds the mirror resting between the lane dividers. With a trepidacious deep breath, the girl counts the cars as they pass before she could safely make her move.

"One car…two, three, four…five…six, seven, eight…nine…"

* * *

"…Ten miles until your exit."

Other than the GPS on Kamala's phone, the overwhelming cloud of silence choked the car as the Love girls continued their trip to Hillwood. While Summer's eyes remained glued to the road, Kamala took deep breaths as she emotionlessly cradled the pieces of her mother's rear view mirror.

Kamala surveyed the situation and counted the cars as they went by. the ninth car would pass, the eighteen-wheeler would follow, and kick off a window of opportunity large enough for her to retrieve the mirror. Car number nine whizzed along the road and Kamala lurched forward, preparing to make her move. Looking back, it all seemed foolproof…until it wasn't. She could feel her entrails crunch with each collision shared between the truck's tires and the fallen piece of her mother's car, nonetheless, she bolts onto the highway and gathers up the aftermath.

"Exit Riverside Highway. Keep left towards Hillwood."

Kamala takes one last look out the window to see building 66613, the corporate headquarters of the RWL Fashion Company. She sees a wistful smile from on her mother's face, no doubt knowing how _she'll _spend her time during the session.

"You have arrived at the Hillwood Medical Center."

The car barely comes to a halt as Kamala opens the door and jumps out. She turns around to close the door when her mother clears her throat.

"Call me when you're done. And I hope to God this Doctor Shortman has something to pull that stick out of your ass."


	4. Lame(ish) Claim to Fame

(Flashback: One Week Ago at Reptile Shack)

_"You know Kamala, if more people like you were in my old school, things would be completely different for me."_

_"How so?"_

_"Well, I live here, but go to school out of district because too many people bullied me. Even though I have a core group of friends, my mom's a bit worried that I'm not exactly Mr. Social. So she has me go to group sessions with this Dr. Shortman."_

_"Dr. Shortman?"_

_"Yeah, he's cool as far as child psychologists go. But I think the sessions are more for __her_ _benefit than __mine__." _

(Present)

It wasn't like this was the first-time therapy for Kamala had been run up the proverbial flagpole.

By the latter half of elementary school, the adults in the room started to put one and one together when it came to the idea that maybe, just maybe, Kamala was always a bit off when compared to her peers; she was prone to mood swings and appeared to relish in disregarding the rules. However, it wasn't until one show and tell involving a bag of candy from Russia and the observation of how "the words look like they belong on mommy's bottle" that the T word was first used.

Yet, a vast chasm existed between the number of times this recommendation was made versus how often it was followed up on. Most of the time, this boiled down to money/insurance issues that came with underemployment. And even on those once-every-blue-moon visits, none of the therapists seemed to click with her. They all seemed to be a revolving door of disinterested and out of touch Freud wannabees whose last interaction with a kid was apparently 1956.

Needless to say, Kamala didn't exactly have the highest of expectations as she bounded up the stairs for her appointment with Dr. Shortman that morning. Still, the memory of her new friend played in her head offered some veneer of assuagement as she gingerly pried the office door open. The sight before her seemed promising; he was younger than most of the so-called experts whose noses she had been foisted under, his manner of dress was relaxed but still professional (red polo and khakis). A quick glance around his office also put her at ease as well. The space was inviting to children without coming off as condescending—no insipid motivational posters, neon colored walls, or sprawling collection of generic stuffed animals spewed about the couch (though the kooky clown punching bag was a bit too on the nose).

"Oh, Kamala. Good afternoon." Arnold said as he looked up from his itinerary. "I was worried you'd be a no-show."

"We ran into some traffic." She said sardonically.

"I see." He said. "Yeah, the state highway can get pretty clogged on weekends."

Emitting a sigh at his obliviousness, Kamala entered the room fully as Dr. Shortman continued his spiel about how therapy isn't shameful or a punishment but rather a chance to examine possible strategies for improvement; platitudes which further soured her overall impression of this endeavor. As she listlessly gave ear, and responded with the occasional affirmative grunt, one piece of Dr. Shortman's office décor appeared to ensnare her attention.

Mounted to the wall and obscured by the bookshelf was a slab of sheet metal the size of a standard license plate. Airbrushed on it was a portrait featuring a particularly skull-like Medusa head with off green skin and an unsettling slasher smile to say the least. From the top of her head sprouted seven deeply emerald snake-like strands of hair, each of which turned into a humanized version of one of the deadly sins. However, it was the eyes that struck Kamala to the core: two gaping and vacuous holes, pitch black- save for a descending staircase and flames.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a Curly fan, Doc." She stated as her normally flat voice perked with curiosity.

"Not really." Arnold replied. "My wife and I had tickets to his show-"

"The one in Hillwood? *scoffs* LUCKY! I pissed my mom off to high heaven calling the radio station that whole week hoping to win tickets."

"And that's where my wife and I picked up this gem." Arnold replied with a faint hint of disgust. "It was the tamest piece overall and since he was a former classmate of ours it would've been rude not to-"

"Woah woah woah, hold the front door! You went to school with THE Curly Gammelthorpe?"

"Why…yes." Arnold stammered. "I'm surprised that you're familiar with his work. His stuff is quite erotic for a middle schooler."

"That's 'cause you don't _get_ it. Curly's work isn't just sleaze for sleaze's sake. It's about releasing the madness and hungers that lurks within us all; begging to be free in our deepest animal mind. While we sedate these aspects into silence; shoving it in a box for the sake of some arbitrary set of bullshit rules, he invites us to go toe to toe with them, beckon them to play free from the self-loathing and inhibition imposed upon us by our so-called society…and you, you Mr. Vanilla McButton-up having a front row seat to the artist of a young man…just…"

"Yeah you'd be surprised as to how many famous faces are here." Arnold chuckled as he rolled his eyes and pulled a photograph off his desk and handed it to Kamala.

"There he is. I'd recognize that bowl-cut anywhere." Kamala said. "And is that…no way Rhonda Wellington Lloyd of R.W.L. Fashion? Helga Pataki the YA writer? Was everyone you went to school with conveniently famous or were you just lucky?"

"Just lucky." Arnold said. "I notice you seem to have a fascination with celebrity and the pursuit therein. Care to elaborate?"

But the doctor's words went in and out of Kamala's ears as she scanned the photo for more famous faces. Ultimately, she stumbles on one that makes her jaw drop.

"Lila the Lottery Lady too?"

"Yes. And as a matter of fact, I still keep in touch with her." Arnold said as he took the photo and placed it back on her desk. "Her wife is my wife's sister. Seeing how glued you are to my photos, I have a shot of them from their wedding on my desk."

Like wings of wax before the sun, Kamala's sudden burst of extroversion evaporated and she reverted with a vengeance back to her caustic adolescent front. Her breathing became sharp and labored, and her face screwed into this hideous frown. But the cherry on top was the exceptional level of vitriol she displayed in refusing Arnold's offer.

"No Dr. Shortman. In fact, truth be told, I would rather a bucket of shrapnel than see whatever photos you have of them…and before you say anything, I just hate marriage. Gay or Straight. *scoff*. I'm not one of _those_ assholes."

"I was going to say…" Began Arnold as he returned Lila and Olga's wedding photo back. "Yes. I remember your folder also mentioning this…peeve of yours. We can talk about it. Or we can talk about some of your issues at school. Choice is yours."


	5. Session 1: Sand Flea

Kamala's bluster evaporated as she pulled out a lollypop and reclined on Dr. Shortman's couch. After steeling a glance at the bookshelf and musing it bursting under the weight of its contents, she stared intensely at the ceiling while the stick dangled from her mouth like a cigarette.

"What can I say about being a girl in middle school that hasn't been said by any of _those_ chuckleheads?" She sighed pointing her thumb in the direction of the little library. "The biological changes, the social pressures, the cyberbullying, the emergence of our sexualities, the worry about how some Pop Tart is going to influence what we wear …you know, all the run-of-the-mill crap written to sell books to worried parents wringing their hands as to how and why their little princess became a thermonuclear warhead of snark, insecurities, and rebellion."

"Um…that's quite an assessment Kamala." Arnold began as he looked down at his notepad and tried to hastily copy what she had said. "And at the risk of coming off as condescending, that's the good thing about these therapy sessions; as long as you aren't threatening self-harm or harm to others it's _your_ time and _your_ words."

"Do you know what a Sand Flea is Doc?" She asked after a minute of silence.

"Um…yes." Arnold replied. "A terrestrial shellfish known for burrowing and feeding on the ocean's swash zone."

"Biologically, yes." Kamala began. "It's also something of an in-group term among those of us who make their home and livelihood in Spencer Beach. You know, non-tourists who have to deal with an off season…and sometimes the financial consequences therein…"

Kamala seemed to get uncharacteristically quiet. A turn of events not lost on Dr. Shortman.

Before he could ask where she fit into this scenario, Arnold looked up from his notepad to see his patient shedding her oversized hoodie. Underneath her technicolor bunny-hug was souvenir apparel of a different sort; a washed-out black tank tee from the Babewach Café advertising a promotion of sorts from yesteryear. An image faded and worn from age and washing. Sensing his speechlessness, her rage comes back in full force.

"Poor. Just say it. I. Am. _Poor_!" Kamala said ragefully. "It's not like Spencer Beach inspires postcode envy in the first place; but even with that my life is like something out of Oliver-effing- Twist! Every aspect of my livelihood comes from this damn restaurant; what I eat, what I wear…and… and those who you think would be oblivious to this are the first to act like sharks around a wounded seal!"

"You mean your classmates."

"You didn't get your degree for nothing." She shot back with a smirk and a knowing gesture to his direction. "Adults get so hung up about _ThE iNNoCenCe of CHiLdhOOd _and all, but…it seems that the stuff you think kids wouldn't notice are the things they have the most laser-like focus on. Particularly when it comes to how and when the social hierarchy begins to take form."

"And when…for you did that-" Arnold began.

"Picture day." Kamala finished with finality.

(Flashback: Second Grade)

_The 'It Girl' look had been outdated for years; no one even wore it ironically. Yet that didn't stop the local thrift store from having enough matching bows/ jumpers and white tees on hand to clothe half the freaking galaxy. And on one fateful day in the name of school pictures, my mother in her infinite wisdom, saw one of these in the window and thought, 'hmm, this would be worth __squirreling away some money over'. _

_Knowing what I know now, it almost seemed stupid how enamored I was by this dress. In hindsight, it was a bit snug in some places and a subtle stain mark could be seen on the back, but I knew that up to now mom never let me have a dress, or for that matter any clothing that hadn't a thing to do with Babewatch. I was a bit too old to feel like a fairy-princess, but the novelty of wearing one wasn't lost on me. _

_It wasn't until I found myself sandwiched alphabetically by last name between Krissy Lang and Joanna Morton that I felt like a pumpkin. I could hear them snickering as they cast glances at me. For a while I tried to blend in and giggle along with them. Even after picture time, the whispered giggles continued. By then it had gotten annoying and tiresome of having to try and keep up with whatever joke they tittered about. _

_But then came Lunch. _

_Out of nowhere I am not only charley-horsed but treated to a torrential downpour of garbage falling over me as I went to throw away what remained of my meal. Upon wiping away the mix of unwanted food and drink, I turn to see Krissy and Johanna, alongside a third girl Stephanie Lang. _

"_Whoops." Krissy remarks. "I guess we missed." _

"_But then again, how could we tell the difference?" Steffi finishes as the three share a cold guffaw. _

(Present)

"Oh my." Arnold said sympathetically. "What did the teachers do in the end."

"A week's detention and a half-assed apology." Kamala replied. "Axe murderers have shown more remorse."

"And your clothes?"

"Burned once mom realized that some of the stains were permanent." Kamala said. "The mental gymnastics on her sometimes…it's like every Babewach shirt that doesn't get sold is given to me because money, but the one dress she huffed and puffed about gets set on fire."

"You don't seem to get along with your mother."

"Well it's not like you've met her." Kamala snapped. "Anyway, I thought it was _my_ time and that _I _could talk about whatever _I_ wanted."

"Oh, you're right." Arnold said. "So, it appears you seem to have little to no friends in school, but what about the teachers?"

"Well, in this day and age, teachers have to walk a fine line because if they get too chummy in a particular student, things get real ugly real fast." Kamala said with a sardonic chuckle. "Besides, I wouldn't trust them to lead lemmings off a cliff."

"I see." Said Arnold catching on. "Unfortunately, I'll have to ask you to put a pin in that and we'll continue next week."

"Yeah, my ride just pulled up."

From the office window, Arnold looked down at the windowless white van. Airbrushed on the side was a cartoonish crustacean holding a wrench and leaning alongside the words 'Sand Flea Plumbing Co.' followed by the address and phone number. Rounding from the driver's side of the van was a balding and slightly paunchy man in a sleeveless tee who greeted Kamala with a warm but reserved hug before opening the front passenger door. Judging from his patient's conduct toward this strange man, it was clear that she didn't seem in any imminent danger.


	6. Session 2-A: Milestones

"So…is this helping?"

Kamala set down her book on reptiles as the van exited the highway. Up to that point, the ride had been wordless, save for a request for breakfast. Nevertheless, she wouldn't have had it any other way. Unlike riding last week with her mom, having Sandy take her to Hillwood this Saturday was comparatively breezy.

"Therapy? Well, this is my second session so it's not like I'm going to be shitting rainbows any time soon-"

"Language Kamala." Sandy replied with a hint of sternness. "I'm still your father after all."

"Sorry dad." She said. "But yeah, seeing Dr. Shortman doesn't seem to be a complete waste of time so far. As long as I don't threaten to harm myself or others, nothing is off the table..."

Rather than feel prideful over his daughter getting the help she needed, Sandy exhaled despondently and stole a glance of himself in the mirror. The words '_I'm still your father_' reverberated and rang on his tongue like church bells on Easter morning, but even he would be the first to admit that such a role was only courtesy of biology.

While the transient quality of his involvement in Kamala's life came mostly from Summer's insistence, his spinelessness in accepting this status quo for the longest time was his fault alone. Instead all he did for Kamala (indirectly) was put in a good word about Summer to his cousin who was planning to open a Babewach themed café, hoping that some money would be coming in for her sake. Other than that, he piddled around as a fry cook and payed alimony for the longest time, only entering his daughter's life on when Summer had exhausted all other options as a parent (and even then, saying she was loath to do so would have been a massive understatement).

Ultimately, Sandy did get a fire under his feet after catching Summer fishing unsold Babewatch Café apparel out of the dumpster after hours; he got his GED after some time at trade school, he quit the café on good terms and started a plumbing company with a buddy of his from town. Even then, taking into account his combined lack of presence and leg to stand on as a provider, any given lawyer would easily argue just how much his change a bit too little too late on many fronts were he to seek sole custody of Kamala.

"Dad! We're here."

After Sandy slammed the breaks, Kamala hopped from the van and strolled toward the building. With a final goodbye and a reminder to text him when she was done, he drove off into the city in search of a gas station.

* * *

"Good morning Dr. Shortman."

"Good morning Kamala." Arnold replied as she made herself welcome in his office. "Have you had a peaceful week?"

"Let's see." She said practically flopping into the purple couch. "Given the fact that I'm actually doing well with homeschooling AND getting a three-month break from the Petri dish of emotional terrorism that is middle school? Honestly, part of me wishes that I did this a long-ass time ago."

Before Arnold's eyebrows could hit the ceiling, Kamala laughed.

"Gotcha didn't I?"

"For a minute there…yeah." Said Arnold. "But levity aside, I have been talking with some of your tutors earlier this week, and they say that your academic standing has been considerably stronger since suspension."

"It's almost as if I can better concentrate on my school work because I'm not serving as somebody's chew toy 6 or 7 hours a day." Kamala said sarcastically. "But my grades aren't the reason they've foisted me under your nose."

"Nobody foisted you to me." Arnold said reassuringly. "I deal with kids all the time with all kinds of problems that run the gamut; bad grades, divorce, gender identity, you name it. And like I was trying to say, your grades were already pretty strong to begin with; but your tutors are seeing improvement. You seem to be pulling solid A minuses across the board."

"Yeah an uptick from every shade of 'B' on the planet." She replied. "Still…it makes you feel stupid after a while; getting your first 'A' when you're thinking about your tits growing in."

"Right, right." Arnold said looking back at her folder. "When I went down to the school, the principal and Mrs. Jimenez mentioned you got an A on a recent math test and then-"

"I beat the living hell out of Steffie, Krissy, and Johanna in the girl's bathroom." Kamala finished as she nodded her head slowly but remorselessly.

(Flashback: Roughly a week and a half ago)

_Everyone acts like I look for moments to be disruptive, like I enjoy having this rage pulsate through my twelve-year-old frame. But when the chips are down, I just want peace, and maybe a couple of real friends. _

_In essence, I want normalcy. _

_Why __this__ math test? I'll never know. Maybe because I know math was always my weakest subject, maybe because Steffi, Krissy and Johanna had been exceptionally cruel when it came to my ability, or lack thereof, to get a good grade. Whatever the reason, I put my all into studying so that for just once, I could hold my head high academically. _

_It's kind of fascinating how quickly a day can change. One minute, you're reveling in getting not only a passing grade, but the highest grade among your peers; the next, three of those aforementioned peers are ripping up your notebook after delivering a punch to your abdomen and making up rumors about why your grades are how they are…after a while, it's like shaking a soda bottle._

(Present)

"Did you report what the girls did?" Arnold asked.

As Kamala let out a barking laugh, astounded by his stupidity, Arnold watched the words fly into the air as the stupidity of his quandary hit him like a sack of bricks; stupidity that his patient was all too ready to clue him in on.

"Doc, you tell me what telling the teacher has done thus far; I'm the one with the record, I'm the one in your office, I'm the one with the penchant for writing/drawing scenes of violence in their notebooks while the teacher isn't looking. And the worst part about it is that for a brief glimpse of a moment, I felt awful."

"And that was why you ran to the beach didn't you?"

Kamala suddenly got quiet. Her eyes suddenly became distant and glowing, the kind of look one gets when getting lost in a memory. With a long sigh, she sat back down on Dr. Shortman's couch.

"Mhm." She said. "Ironically it's all the hustle and bustle that makes it peaceful. You're just another face if you allow yourself to be. The perfect place to escape when you don't want to be found. After I biked away from the school and the guilt melted away, I passed another milestone that I gave up on thinking I'd ever accomplish."

"And what was that?"

"I made my first friend."


	7. Session 2-B: Realizations and Reptiles

_I almost want to kick myself for not finding it sooner. _

_Squirreled away amidst the unending parade of gaming arcades, seaside saloons, and kitsch mongers peddling their wares was a hole in the wall establishment by the name of Reptile Shack. I know I never really mentioned it to you Doc, but I'm into reptiles and amphibians; snakes, lizards, frogs, salamanders, toads, crocodiles, I could talk your ear off on them if I wanted to. _

_Anyway, after breaking out of detention over delivering a long-overdue bathroom beatdown to a certain trio of bitches, I biked all the way over to the boardwalk and grabbed a hot dog. Other than the occasional meter maid, I strolled through the place with impunity. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw this adorable pair of __Phelsuma Madagascariensis scampering along the glass of their tank._

* * *

Arnold looked quizzically at his patient as he inquired which reptile caught her attention.

"Sorry. Madagascar Day Gecko." Kamala replied as he returned to his notepad.

* * *

_They were adorable to watch scampering about the tank, but not '$29.95 and tax' adorable. And I would have watched them until my eyes melted out were it not for another policeman coming down the way, so I duck inside before he could even know I was there. _

Kamala takes a deep breath.

_I couldn't have picked a better place to hide if I invented one; the smell of reptile just assaults your nostrils the minute you step in…and, and everywhere you look, species and subspecies you've only seen in books are looking you dead in the eye; scarlet kingsnakes, coachwhips, corn snakes, five banded skinks, horned lizards, glass lizards, spotted turtles, baby alligator snapping turtles, iguanas the size of a pillow…you name it. They had every guide imaginable on owning or starting your own terrarium, they had petrified wood, mulch, lights and heaters. _

_And tucked away in the back was the crown jewel of the whole damn operation; standing on its hind legs was this giant-ass taxidermed Lace Monitor. I finally get close enough to the thing to really appreciate it when I hear this voice come from across the store. _

_"I wouldn't touch that." _

_I look up to see this lanky and dweebish looking boy with dirty blonde hair and glasses rush toward me from the cash register and introduce himself as Rod Finn, the owner's son. He gives me the skinny on why he's so touchy about the lizard; it_ _wandered here from up north after being abandoned, his dad found it beneath boardwalk surviving on feral cats and half-eaten funnel cake, apparently it could read, and after it died he had it stuffed. It used to be displayed in a place of greater prominence the shop; which in hindsight was a poor choice given the quantity of drunk tourists who have attempted to take lewd selfies with it. So now they tuck it away in the back._

* * *

(Present)

"It's funny." Said the preteen after a pause. "As much as _you're_ assigned to keep my psycho ass in check during this whole 'suspension' thing, it was him that really got me to lower my guard down about coming here. He told me a bit about you."

"Well, I'll be sure to thank him." Arnold chuckled. "I'm aware he has therapy with me, and that is all I am at liberty to say about our sessions. So, what did you guys wind up discussing afterwards."

"Literally everything." Kamala continued. "Reptiles, amphibians, fish, school, bullying, existence, the future, dealing with an upper working-class seaside town …yeah, it was all over the place. He's a big fan of that TV zookeeper Nadine Robinson and even got to meet her once when she did her special on seaside mollusks."

"Very nice." Arnold said. "The two of you seem to have struck quite the rapport."

Kamala pursed her lips and fidgeted subtly.

"We have, haven't we?" She whispers.

* * *

(Flashback: two weeks ago)

_Rod Finn with the Eastern Box Tortoise. Like. _

_Rod Finn with a handful of Garter Snakes. Like. _

_Rod Finn on his birthday with a boa constrictor on his shoulders. Lol face. _

_Earlier that night, my InstaSpace feed was a torrential shitstorm of rumors. Everyone I knew from school pretty much gave their own embellished account of what happened, and a smaller, braver handful even messaged me; 'Is it true you kept Steffi's teeth in a jar?' 'Did you really bite off Krissy's ear', 'I heard a rumor you drew a swastika with their blood on the walls!' 'Are any of them going to walk after what you did?'…on and on it went until I finally tossed my phone aside. _

_My fury only subsides after fumbling about my pockets and pulling out the business card I swiped before being frog marched back home. Before I know it, I've reacted in some way shape or form to every picture that featured Rodney. But could you blame me? That dweebish countenance begging to be swirlied, that awkward clump of hair resting on his head like moss, how he straddles that line between utterly nerdy and endearing…adorkable, I think they call it. Part of me goes into chills and knots; like I swallowed a breeding ball of particularly frisky anacondas. Then the other half of me wants to snap him in half like a twig. How dare he make me feel this weakness. How __dare__ he worm his way past the acerbic shell I cloister myself within. Then I curse myself for being the emotionally anorexic leviathan everyone makes me out to be, and suddenly I feel my senses all go whacky…on and on my emotions ping-pong until I'm too tired to function and__** I. **__**Just. **__**CRASH**__**!**_

* * *

(Back in the present)

Arnold set down his notepad and sipped from the bottle of water on his desk. The wheels in his head turned as he looked at Kamala (sprawled out on his couch and wheezing as if she ran a marathon) and then his documentation on their meeting.

What she had was a crush. Plain and simple when all was said and done. While her feelings were as newfound as they were intense, rooted solely in one major interaction where they shared a love of cold-blooded creatures, Arnold also remembered a girl from his childhood possessing similarly strong sentiments for a boy who made one offhanded compliment about a pink bow she wore to preschool.

And the more comparisons he drew between Helga and Kamala, a gaping hole began to emerge in their sessions: home life. He knew from her file that Summer Love had sole custody of Kamala and that her father Sandy's participation in her life was spotty at best. He also knew that Kamala harbored particular hostility and mistrust at all depictions of heterosexual family units and the institution of marriage as a whole since the latter half of elementary school when all these behavioral problems came bubbling to the surface.

At the same time, Arnold also reconsidered the intimate nature of their sessions. Was a one-on-one approach the right way to go in the long run; particularly if ostracization by her classmates was a recurring theme? He had a group session two hours after this one ended, would having her join that help forge friendships within her peer group? Particularly if one of the kids in this group therapy was the boy whom she began a friendship with.

However, before Arnold could say anything, Kamala's phone began to chime. As she read the incoming text, her face screwed up into a grimace of disappointment and disgust.

"Mom's picking me up." She said with revulsion. "She'll be here in five minutes."

"Well then that is enough time for me to run a proposition by you." Arnold replied. "It appears that you seem to have trouble forging friendships with kids your age…

"Understatement of the freaking millennium." She muttered with venom.

"…and as luck would have it, I happen to have today in two hours a group session with kids around your age." Arnold continued. "Many live close by, but a few here and there come from the surrounding counties. Of course, I'll have to run it by your principal and the school district, but I want to know if that's a course of action you feel would be beneficial to your growth."

"Why the hell not?" She said. "I highly doubt anybody could outdo Steffi, Krissy and Johanna in terms of prepubescent villainy."

"That's…an oddly positive way of putting it, but if it works for you, who am I to knock it." Arnold said. "But like I said, I'd have to talk to your mom and the school district before we set anything in motion."

Almost as if on cue, there was a knock at the door. In stepped Summer, but rather than her Babewatch uniform, she wore a pair of cutoff jeans and a rather conservative tee adorned with a heart.

"I thought dad was going to pick me up." Kamala inquired.

"Yeah well, consider this another in the long line of disappointments life gives you kid." Summer shot back. "I hope she wasn't a complete terror today doc.

"Far from it." Arnold replied as he felt a ripple of anger within him. "In fact, I'd say she's been making much progress."

"Good." Summer replied curtly. "I have no idea where she gets this rotten attitude from."

In deep contrast to many sighted straight men, Arnold was never one to stare at women's shorts for any extended period of time. Yet as the Loves left his office, his eyes couldn't pry themselves away from the mother's daisy dukes, triggering a long dormant memory of the familiar way they fit the body of a girl he once crossed paths with many summers ago. Looking down from his office window, it isn't until the blonde woman gives a lustful smile to a pedestrian as Kamala situates herself in the front seat of the car that Arnold finally puts one and one together.

"No way…Summer!"


	8. Prime Time

Arnold usually wasn't the kind of guy to crack open a cold one.

Out of respect for Helga and what she went through with a mom whose use of smoothies wasn't so much a crutch as it was a wheelchair, he did all in his power to avoid any fermented beverage like the plague. Every so often however, his thoughts would exceptionally overwhelming and one bottle was just enough to take the edge off and maybe get a really good night's sleep depending on how his body reacted to the alcohol.

As it was, it occurred to him—albeit briefly—that the last time he had taken the edge off in this manner was when naming Cecile a year and a half ago when they lived at the boarding house. They moved to a house in the suburbs on Van Dyke Court as Hillwood became the hot new place to live and everyone got priced out in one manner of speaking or another.

Tonight wouldn't be a sleepy-buzz for Arnold as he seated himself before the television after the wife and kids went to bed and tuned into the Stars-N-Stripes channel which held Babewatch marathons on a whim practically every other night. Once the name of the show finished scrolling horizontally across a coastal sunset, the scene cut to Donny Helfenbein and Kamala Ellison running across the beach in sync to the drum machine and cheesy electric guitar riff which constituted the show's theme. Eclipsing the orchestration was the hammily gruff pseudo-surfer dude voice of the announcer.

"This week on Babewatch. _Love _and deception _**rock **_the beach!"

"It sure did, didn't it?" Came a voice.

Chuckling to herself in the threshold of the family room, Helga watched her husband with amusement emit a sheepish squeak like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. In her hand was a pint of ice cream.

"Oh, crap. Honey, did I wake anyone up?"

"Relax Football Head, the kids are out cold and I couldn't sleep anyway." Helga chuckled as she sat herself on the couch next to him and dismissively waved her hand. "So, a bottle of beer and Babewatch reruns, is tonight sponsored by the letter 'B' or something?"

"Eh." He said taking another sip. "I just had a pretty taxing day at work, and as much as I want to talk about it, I can't because doctor/patient confidentiality."

"I see." Replied Helga sympathetically as she opened her dessert. "Want a spoonful? It's butterscotch."

On screen, the water rippled around Kamala Ellison's body as her lithe and buoyant body swam through the surf in yet another titillating shot clearly meant for fan-service. Unbeknownst to Helga, as Arnold shook his head, gently sipped at his beer and sighed, her husband was undergoing a moral quandary over the consequences of their gain (and with it, Summer's loss) rippling into Kamala's life.

"Hey Helga," he asked after a pall of silence. "Do you ever think about that sandcastle contest we won that vacation as kids?"

"You kidding?" She replied. "Between Bob getting all fired up over the chance to wave his manhood around at beach sports and Miriam acting like a wet rag, that contest was the only thing that made the vacation worthwhile. And the cherry on top was that little vixen getting a cold dish of Karma…what was her name anyway? Clover? Stormy? I dunno, it was definitely something hippie-dippy sounding."

"Summer."

"Oooh, right. Summer." She replied. "…anyway, what brings her back out of the morgue refrigerator of irrelevancy?"

"I don't know, just a lot of thoughts when I was driving on through that day to the school." Arnold said. "It's bad enough when off season takes its toll on you, you know? Then if that weren't bad enough, where you live becomes a de-facto playground for the crew of a TV show once upon a time, and you're just left in the shadow of it all before-"

"Arnold." Helga interjected as she held her nose. "Even if Spencer Beach made Beverly Hills look like a nuclear landfill, Summer would still be the same reptilian-hearted cunt blindly attempting to jump start a (most likely anemic) career in acting. Yeah, I get that you have this thing where you try to look on the bright side and possess this brave, yet misguided concern for the misfortunate, but whatever Karma has in store for her and her chump future baby-daddy are consequences of their own doing."

As he sat silently and drank in what Helga had to say on the matter, Arnold felt his feeling his guilt come to a dull roar, and be replaced by gratitude for his wife's relative acerbity (even if she was off the mark over which girl's existence he felt they had inadvertently ruined). Summer saw him as a disposable sucker whose existence in that moment was simply means all those years ago, and while Kamala was a biological extension, the girl's attitude seemed to point towards a latent disdain for her maternal figure.

"You're right…" Arnold began. "But you want to know something Helga?"

"What?"

His face breaks into a mischievous smirk

"You love me for it!"

Arnold scooped his wife towards him and began to anoint her neck with kisses and nuzzling, to which she giggled and playfully pretended to object. As the episode drew to a close, their friskiness and canoodling gave way to slumber, with the television serving as silent sentry to their subsequent spooning.


	9. Scenes from an Inelegant Breastaurant

He the scrawny, guileless, shrimp with the ovular head too big for his body.

She the sardonic, tenacious, little gorilla of a girlfriend rubbing their victory in.

The image of Arnold and Helga sauntering off into the sunset with the victory that should have been hers had forever been captured and immortalized in Summer's psyche; that one brief moment, playing over and over again as if on an aging reel of celluloid film stock. Sure, it was grainy possibly even worn and scratchy in some places. Yet when the chips were down, the moment and whatever subjects therein remained impervious to age.

All that changed after Summer called it a night and made her way to the parking lot. From the corner of her eye, she found herself drawn to a modest oak plaque mounted amidst the overwhelming potpourri of memorabilia. Up to tonight, it had been made all the more obscured by years of cheap balloons tied to the helium tank which the other waitresses would pass out in hopes of courting tourists with families. Enshrined upon the top half of this keepsake was the banner for the Spring 1999 copy of the Clark County Conch, a local entertainment-oriented periodical. But it's the time-yellowed photograph and press blurb which read thusly which catches the weary waitress' eyes:

_Arnold Shortman (center) and Helga Pataki (right) of Hillwood took home first place at Spencer Beach's annual sandcastle competition last week. Officiating the contest was none other than Babewatch 2__nd__ Cameraman Mitchell Weiss (left) who presented the winners with their once-in-a-lifetime prize of appearing on the show. _

The epiphany that followed was seismic. Were it a natural disaster and not a realization made by a warped and frustrated member of the food service industry, the results would have reduced the county to ashes.

To Summer, he was just Arnold. Nothing more, nothing less. Setting him apart from the great unwashed of doe-eyed tourists was how he happened to do with sand castles what Michelangelo did with the inside of Catholic churches. But life had marched on since that fateful vacation of yore; a fact bought all the more home as she bolted into the parking lot and caught her reflection in her car's driver side window. Looking again with her mind's eye at the boy, all as the pieces came together while factoring in how pubescence blessed him with some level of muscle as well as a chance to grow into his distinctively shaped dome; leaving him a far cry from the gangly child shaking hands with the judge beneath the giant overhead banner. By contrast, what did life seem to have in store for her since the window of opportunity slammed shut? She was a single mother to a morosely violent basket case watching her beauty becoming a cold parody of itself and with it, her career at the café was pretty much an act of charity by this point.

Summer could feel the years of deep, pent up rage and disappointment begin to surface. However, before these frustrations manifested themselves into a primal scream, she looked back at the buzzing café sign. Emitting a hissing cackle, she can feel the gears in her head turn upon seeing five words on the marquis:

Gift. Cards. Now. For. Sale.


	10. Session 3: Come on and SLAM!

(Flashback: Sometime During the Week, Arnold's Office)

"…_I've got to say Mr. McLeod, Kamala seems to be showing improvements by leaps and bounds, but if the goal is to have her socializing healthily then at some point we have to ask ourselves when we've reached the limits that a one on one session could…mhm…mhm…yeah, but all I'm saying is that if she's around more kids her own age…mhm…Alright, and was her being bullied factored in at all…look, I'm not excusing what she did, but if you're concerned about her anti-social disposition…exactly my point…alright then, I'll be sure to tell her that when I see her Saturday_."

* * *

(Saturday)

En route to Dr. Shortman's office that morning, Summer stopped the car at the Babewatch Café. Though the place didn't open until noon and her shift didn't start until 2:30, Kamala felt this pit stop unnecessary, even as her mother handed off some hastily cobbled excuse of 'forgetting something from the other night' and that 'she'd be quick'. True to her word, whatever business at the restaurant which needed addressing didn't hold up their travels in the grand scheme of things; at the same time, Kamala couldn't help but feel that this had been yet another occurrence in a week already rife with signs that Summer's state of mind was crumbling. A week which begun with a long pall of silence on her part.

It would be criminal to understate just how much Kamala relished in the novelty of her mother being struck mute…at first. After a lifetime of hearing nothing from Summer but constant verbal abuse and/or the unending verbal tapestry of self-pity she spun over having fame snatched from her hands as a teenager, this sudden bout of silence started off as refreshing; almost (dare she say) comparable to an oasis in the middle of a desert. As the week began to draw to a close however, the preadolescent suddenly felt her joy curdle into unease. To begin with, her presence seemed to instantly drain the warmth of out of any room she entered. Moreover, the way she went through life as well as any and all tasks therein had a sudden robotic quality to them. Were one to look closely, they would also see her arms give subtle intermittent tremors. But what truly unnerved Kamala was the homicidal thousand-yard stare her face had frozen into coupled with a cold smile which bought to mind a long-suffering wife serving her husband coffee spiked with liquid drain cleaner.

Of course, she put up a more personable front at work, but even then, her bubbliness to the customers felt labored; she didn't speak unless directly addressed and her speech was clipped and direct. Furthermore, her already strained relationships with the fellow waitresses took on an extra level of curtness. The thought of calling her out momentarily crossed their minds, only for such thoughts to be cowed when news broke of her sudden tendency to whisper 'pay…they'll all pay' in the presumed privacy of the women's bathroom.

In time, Summer guiltily scampered out of the restaurant. Everything about her body language bringing to mind a toddler sneaking away with half the cookie jar: she kept looking over her shoulder as her hands fumbled inside the pouch of her hoodie. Before Kamala's mouth could even create an inquisitive phoneme, her mother shut her down.

"You saw nothing." She hissed. "Got that?"

"Yes mom." She replied as they began their wordless travel.

* * *

"Good Morning Kamala." Said Arnold. "I have wonderful news that I'd like to share before we start today's session."

"And what might that be?"

"Well, I've been talking it over with the school district and we've come to the conclusion that we've reached the limits as to what you can gain from these one on one sessions, so starting next week, we will be looking into a group therapy setting for you…but on a trial basis."

"Ok." Began Kamala.

"Your principal seems leery to this proposition, given the circumstances…and when I tried to get in contact with your mother, she seemed…

"Apathetic?" Kamala replied flatly.

"Yeah…that's a way of putting it." He said slowly as his mind turned back to that call.

* * *

(Flashback: Earlier that week)

"_Hello, Babewatch Café, Nicholas speaking." _

"_Oh, hello Nicholas. This is Dr. Shortman, I tried reaching Summer at home." _

"_Sure, sure, can you hold for a minute so I can call her over? With tourist season starting we've had things picking up…"_

"_No sweat." _

_After some momentary silence, I hear the scuffling of a telephone being transferred from one party to another. Before I could have the chance to identify myself, her brusque and bitter voice suddenly hurdles through the receiver like a fist to the ear. _

"_Hi, I got tables to wait so just tell me, what she did wrong this time?" _

"_Nothing. In fact, quite the opposite, Kamala seems to be making good process in her therapy-"_

"_Yeah, great. Whatever helps get her rear into gear…I just can't with her anymore you know?" _

_I purse my lips. _

"_Given that she will be returning to school at some point," I continue. "I feel that a one on one approach can only go so far. So, with your permission I'd like to have her formally join my group sessions where she'll-" _

"_Look, right now, this call isn't exactly putting bread in my pocket. If you think having her play nice with other kids is a good thing, do it. You have my permission." __[dial tone]_

* * *

(Present)

"Classic Summer." She said with a shrug. "Can't say I'm surprised though, tourist season at a café dedicated to a TV show that's been off the air for almost thirty years is literally the highlight of her life at this point. And the worst part of it all is how _I'm_ supposed to bow and scrape in gratitude like this makes her the Mother of God or something. I mean, she talks a _world_ of shit about my dad being a plumber but at least a) he owns his own business and b) actually provides a service to people 365 days a year."

"I was going to say Kamala, you've been hesitant to discuss your family thus far." Arnold continued. "Your file makes numerous mentions about a deep rejection of any presentation of a heteronormative family structure."

"Um, can you make it _not_ sound like you've swallowed a dictionary? Thanks."

"You know, the 'mommy, daddy, children and dog in the cute little house' set up."

"Geez, when you dumb it down, you _really_ dumb it down." Said Kamala as she got up, pulled out the bopping clown from out of the corner of his room and set down front and center. "But can you really blame me when the closest thing to an 'us' shared between me and my parents happened in the back of an Econoline van?"

With all the force she could muster, Kamala slammed her fist into the clown's face.

"I'm sure in another lifetime Sandy would have been an okay dad…[SLAM]…of course, that would have to mean realizing a long-ass time ago that Summer wasn't the only game in town and finding the balls to stand up to her more often…[SLAM]… Maybe, he would have even bettered himself earlier in the game for his own sake…[SLAM]…and not glommed onto her coattails as her future hapless boyfriend/manager…[SLAM]…in her deluded little fame-game…[SLAM]…Because all in all, that's really his crime: dicklessness."

Kamala's breath became labored and she seated herself back on Dr. Shortman's couch. Arnold could see that his patient's face was beginning to screwing up, as if on the verge of tears. He handed her a box of tissues which she placed next to her and wiped at the corner of her eyes as she continued.

"And yet…as far as transient sperm-donors go, Sandy isn't as much of a loser as he lets on. Sure, it took him half my life to man up and walk back into it, and I can't in good conscience call him 'father' when he only now has done the bare minimum to earn such distinction. But the sad thing is, his bare minimum goes a long way because it translates to some conscious attempt to connect with me. He's going to be picking me up after this, and taking me to Reptile Shack."

"Oh, that's good." Arnold said. "Some daddy-daughter bonding time?"

"Not really." Kamala continued. "It just so happens that Reptile Shack is next door to Pepe's Taco Stand where he and his crew are doing renovations this afternoon. Even still, that shows he's made more of an effort to see me as a person with interests and feelings—not like Summer who just thinks I'm some parasite merrily sucking away at her infantile hopes and dreams."

The fury in Kamala returned with a vengeance; before Arnold could open his mouth, he found his office being filled with the telltale sound of human flesh on vinyl.

"_**Mom**_ had it all figured out back in the day, didn't she?" Kamala asked bitterly as she resumed wailing on his clown. "She was gonna be an _actress_!...[SLAM]… She was gonna be a _**star**_!...[SLAM]… She was gonna shake her ass on the hood of Whitesnake's car!...[SLAM!]. It's a story as old as time; the plucky girl next door in the no-horse town who feels that she and she alone is the next big thing to hit Hollywood or Broadway …[SLAM]…But unlike Harriet Heartland or Flyover Francesca, _Summer's_ reach towards fame was a little easier seeing as how the Babewatch crew used her backyard as a stage set…[SLAM]…pretty soon she practically gained a reputation among her peers for flirting with any member of the crew…[SLAM]…from the script supervisor to the poor schmuck who got everyone coffee…[SLAM]…and **LEST** **WE** **FORGET**** ABOUT THAT GODDAMN SANDCASTLE CONTEST SHE LOST TO SOME TOURISTS**…[SLAM] [SLAM] [SLAM]…The contest which bought her life to a halt …[SLAM] [SLAM] [SLAM]...and practically super-glued a vodka bottle to her mouth for five years…[SLAM] [SLAM] [SLAM] [SLAM] [SLAM]…of course with a nine month reprieve during PREGNANCY!

The clown continued to wobble violently in the aftermath of Kamala's final blow. Gingerly, Arnold rose himself and placed the clown back in the corner and offered to get his client a cup of water from the cooler in the hall. After she guzzled three glasses, Kamala found herself calm enough to continue speaking.

"Been holding that in for a while now, haven't we Kamala?"

"Yeah." She gasped. "And it wasn't until that fateful picture day when the illusion began to crumble."

* * *

(Flashback: Second Grade)

_Being at the beach all my life, I had watched my fair share of bonehead tourists get cited for the occasional seaside campfire. So, the possibility of seeing mom getting in trouble with the law __and__ burn the one piece of clothing that was special to me at the time didn't exactly make me accomplice of the year. _

'_Mommy, we're gonna be spotted'_

_Not now Kamala. Now what have you-oh good some more flyers from that stupid dance studio._'

'_But I don't want you to get in trouble_'

'_We're __only__ going to get in trouble if __you__ don't shut your stinking trap. So, unless you want mommy in jail, get back to work!' _

_And there we sat in the dead of night watching my clothes and the assortment of combustible crap we collected burn for all of roughly two or three minutes before a wave came in and carried everything away into the Pacific. It's kind of ironic when I think about it now…the fire was supposed to destroy my uniform, but instead any and all sense of normalcy or illusions I may have had that Summer tried to parent me to the best of my abilities went up in flames from that day forward; leaving in its wake what you see before you today._

* * *

(Present)

Like the embers of a once raging inferno, the girl wheezed a bit as her breathing returned to normal and asked for another glass of water. Upon swallowing the last dregs of water, Kamala monotonously resumed her speaking.

"I blew it, didn't I Doc?"

"Blew what?"

"This kumbaya kiddie therapy whatchama-jiggie you had planned for me." She replied. "You're probably going to abort that plan in favor of cramming me with every antidepressant in the solar system, or hauling me on a one-way bus to juvie; and I wouldn't blame you in the slightest. I'm a monster plain and simple; a danger to myself and others. I know nothing about human emotion except pain and how to inflict it on others."

Arnold sat shellshocked; his eyes darting between the notes he took that day and his patient as she gazed out the office window while her adrenaline subsided rapidly. Like the pieces of a complicated puzzle, every word was available, but the question was how he was going to make them fit together.

"Kamala…while I admit that your expression of rage was…highly intense…probably the most that I've ever seen in my career…and for a moment, I can not lie when I say this display of yours has left me speechless and a little frightened…but, you aren't the monster you say you are…I know there's compassion, understanding and (dare I say) the capacity of love for your fellow man; I heard it when you talked about your dad earlier, as well as last week you mentioned Rodney…[Kamala blushes slightly]…so no, more than ever I am confident in saying that as of next Saturday, I am moving you into my group sessions. "

"But I remember mom screaming her lungs out that she can't get me to those sessions on the phone with you." Kamala interjected. "How will I get there if she's at work?"

* * *

(Flashback: Yesterday)

"—_Alright, the school district is paying for these sessions instead. But how the blue hell do you expect me to schlep her there when I'm at work trying to provide for her?" Summer screamed through the receiver. "It's bad enough this suspension is eating into my shifts as it stands…" _

"_Ms. Love." I begin. "There's another kid in these sessions who lives in the Spencer Bea-"_

"_Great, just what I need, Kamala getting chummy with someone else two fries short of a kid's meal." Summer grumbled. "Who is this person?" _

"_I don't think I'm at liberty to say because of Doctor-Patient Confidentiality, but I just got done talking with their mother and she'd be more than happy to drive Kamala as well." _

"_UGHHHHH! Fine…Just…"[dial tone]_

* * *

(Present)

"Well, after that call, I made another to Mrs. Finn who had quite the proposition…"


	11. The Calm-ala Before the Storm

It had been a month since the group therapy sessions began and by that point the difference seemed to be night and day.

Sure, Kamala was initially hesitant, and in some respects that hesitance still lingered in her dealings with the other at large children in Dr. Shortman's fifteen-person group. At the same time however, having Rod serve as a social buffer was a blessing. Through him, she found herself establishing the strongest rapports with his particular social circle; Nicholas and his twin sister Mikayla, Evan, Peter and Paul. Through them, Kamala also managed to find friends in Evan's older twin cousins Adam and Calliope who it just so happened were the children of "Seaside" Savas Koukouzis, proprietor of the aptly named hole-in-the-wall eatery on Spencer Beach.

But nobody was more tickled pink that Mrs. Finn. From the front seat of her minivan she watched her son's budding friendship with Kamala and, as most well-meaning adults are wont to do in such occurrences, hoped to hear wedding bells chime for the two of them down the line (though to her credit, such hopes were limited to a silent knowing smile as she gave the occasional glace at the two of them).

Around this time, the tourist season also began to pick up at Spencer Beach as well. Yet in spite of the onslaught of thrill seekers from around the Evergreen State, Kamala and Rod found themselves becoming regular fixtures at Seaside Savas' every Saturday evening. Occupying the round table for two beneath the blue awning, they sipped their iced teas, picked at a shared Greek Salad and reveled in their festival seating to the daily grind of tourists, particularly the ones patronizing a nearby dive bar/music venue known simply as _Iguana's_. Bothered by none, save for the occasional chat with Calliope and Adam.

"…yeah, the owner gave me a tour of the place once when I delivered him lunch." Adam said. "It's dark and kind of dingy, but they always get some of the coolest bands every season. I know SPAMoni has a running gig there around the middle of July-"

"SPAMoni?"

"Yeah, a local Ska band that does Dino Spumoni covers. They're really good…oohf. Dad's calling, I gotta get back in."

Some time passed. A couple strolled down the boardwalk basking in their victory at a neighboring carnival game (as evidenced by the girl holding a giant Day-Glo green bear). Still flushed with triumph, she pulls out her phone and snaps a picture while planting a kiss on the cheek of her date as the sun sets in the west…a spectacle far from lost on the two preteens across the way. While half of Rod's mouth bends upward in an awkward smile as he sips at the melting collection of ice in his glass, Kamala feels her stomach filling with butterflies.

"Oop! It's almost seven." Kamala says as her phone begins to ping. "Sandy is waiting for me by Pepe's. We gotta clean up."

"Here let me get these napkins."

In their mad dash to clean up their mess, Rodney and Kamala felt their hands brush up against one another. As their skin collided, they looked at each other and felt time slowing down. They stammered for a bit and chuckled before going inside to pay their check.

As the van pulled up outside of Kamala's home, she seemed to float past the threshold and off to her room, oblivious to Summer's caterwauling over her staying out as long as she did. Like a lullaby and warm milk, the feeling of that bump carried off into slumber.

* * *

(Meanwhile in Hillwood, later that week)

"Hey, Arnold. Interesting piece of mail I got earlier this afternoon. It's on the dining room table."

It wasn't often that the words 'interesting' and 'mail' often went hand in hand for Arnold or Helga; that was just something that came with adulthood. But as he held the envelope in his hands, his face immediately furrowed quizzically upon seeing the return address:

Babewatch Café. 525 Viksten St. Spencer Beach, WA.


	12. A Dish Best Served Cold

_Dear Dr. Shortman. _

_When I opened the Babewatch Café a decade and a half ago, I did so with the intention of seeing the company as a giant extended family. In that spirit, I write this letter as an opportunity to express my personal gratitude for the work you have done with Kamala Ellison Love. _

_As not only the employer of her mother but also the older cousin (and former employer) of her biological father, it's more than fair to say that I have known Kamala all her life and practically watched her grow up with the restaurant as a second home of sorts. As such, her mental and behavioral well-being is important to me. _

_As an expression of my gratitude, I hope you will accept these two $25 dollar gift vouchers for the Babewatch Café (good towards the restaurant and shop) and stop by should your travels bring you back to our humble seaside town once more. _

_Sincerely, _

_Nicholas C. Schorr _

_Owner and Proprietor of the Babewatch Café_.

* * *

There was no turning back now.

It had been 45 minutes since Arnold Shortman began driving along the Riverside Highway and Hillwood's skyline had now become an amorphous mish-mosh along the horizon. Yet all the distance in the world couldn't stop his insides from squirming suspicion over the sudden act of altruism on Nicholas' behalf.

The whole thing seemed odd on principle; for starters, here he was taking his wife out for a night on the town to an out of the way tourist trap of a bar featuring skimpily-attired waitresses. On top of that, said bar also happened to be the bane of his client's existence because it a) personified all the abhorrent aspects about her mother and b) enabled this woman to continue in her piss-poor maternal track record. On top of all that, one would think a place which went out of its way in catering to the _Babewatch_ fandom would have made some measly reference to their brush with small screen fame which came courtesy of the show.

"Geez Arnold-o." Helga suddenly piped up. "You feel like rolling down the window a crack? I can practically _smell _the doubt on you."

"That obvious isn't it?" Arnold replied with a chuckle. "But doesn't it seem odd on principle?

"Look, you did everything in your power to trust and verify these gift cards." Helga began in a firm but reassuring tone. "But after a while, looking a gift horse in the mouth starts to make you look like an ingrate."

"Your right darling." Arnold said giving his wife's hand a pat.

"Besides, you know damn well you're already going home with the hottest girl in the restaurant."

"Whatever you say, Helga." He chuckled.

* * *

(The Restaurant)

Though she was in no real position to show it, Summer's patience was starting to fray.

She had no choice in the matter but to bide her time, doing so would make "Nick's" note more convincing. That said, with the week drawing to a close and the feeling of having her goal post moved yet again with shift after shift, waiting for Doctor Shortman to grace her and the café with his presence began to eat at her resolve; especially now with the knowledge he was _the_ Arnold of her youth. After putting the finishing touches on a Long Island Iced Tea, she steals a glance at the giant clock over the soda fountain. The time was 7pm.

"Half hour left." She mutters to herself.

Just as she was to resign herself to another uneventful night behind the bar playing mother hen to yet another bimbette who she'll have to compete with for customers and their tips, a familiar voice somehow managed to cut through the din;

"Ok. if that thing starts talking, I'm breaking out the Holy Water."

Greeting the couple in the restaurant vestibule was a life-sized fiberglass statue of a highly caricatured P.J. Barker holding a sign which told customers to wait for a hostess to seat them.

A gleam flashes Summer's her eye and her lips curl upward into a reptilian smile as she savors the sight before her. Sure, the brassy little bitch had also escaped _her_ particular cocoon of adolescence, but the years did little to curb the magnitude of swagger oozing from every word that exited her mouth.

Business picked up slightly through the night, which normally would have put a smile on Summer's otherwise dour face. Instead, fury swelled about her insides. Arnold and Helga practically danced on the edge of her clutches in almost every way possible and yet each opportunity for her to swoop down on them was foiled at the last minute. She went to escort them to her table, only to see another waitress named Barbara take their order before she could fully leave the bar. When Helga had to use the little girl's room, her station suddenly became swamped with orders. And on the subject of drinks, Barbara practically had a sixth sense when it came to refilling their beverages. Furthermore, from what little conversation she heard at their table, the Shortmans appeared to be the most boring people imaginable. If they weren't leisurely munching at their respective meals or guzzling alternations between water and Yahoo Sodas, they bantered about potential preschools for their second daughter or gushed about the progress some women named Olga and Lila made in looking into adopting children.

In the end, the proverbial whistle rang and Summer's shift came to an end. Arnold and Helga appeared to continue taking their sweet time with dinner and nowhere near ready to leave. But as the waitress pulled two packets of powdered laxatives from her cleavage and tossed them into the trash, she let out a resigned sigh and muttered that Plan B was to be executed.

* * *

(8:05 in the Babewatch Café parking lot)

So what if the squatting took its toll on her calves?

So what if the shrubbery poked and stroked her in places most intimate?

So what if it meant pawing about the accumulation of litter piled at the feet of the restaurant?

Gone from Summer's frame was the saucy server's garb, replaced now with clothes that complimented the night. Her face akin to the sirens of lore had now been concealed by a set of pantyhose. Her smile, coquettish and warm, was usurped by a steely grimace seen only in hungry predators. To calm her nerves, she squeezed the plumber's wrench in her right hand as the restaurant doors opened, and her targets stepped into the night; blissfully unaware of the trap they had unwittingly wandered into.

From the corner of Arnold's eye, he could see a large van with a familiar looking cartoon shellfish parked in the rear of the lot. As he turned to see the vehicle marked with the words "Sand Flea Plumbing Co." emblazoned on the side, he found himself distracted by Helga's scream and a metallic clang.

"HELGA!"

But it was too late. The subsequent clang would be the last thing Arnold heard for a while as he found himself falling to the ground and out of consciousness.


	13. Sodom by the Sea

"Arnold. Arnold. Arnold. All these years later, and you're still as stupid as they come."

Consciousness slowly returned to the Shortmans as they find themselves struggling against bungee cords and inhaling the overwhelming stench of gasoline. Summer removes the burlap sack from Arnold's head and proceeds to seat herself in front of the entranceway of the dilapidated room they find themselves occupying.

"I assume you're just bursting with questions so let's get the first one out of the way."

Th light switch clicks and an anemic radiance begins to fill the room. Once his eyes adjust from the darkness Arnold drinks in his surroundings. The paint had long since begun to chip and the windows had been boarded up. Splotches of graffiti and dust bunnies had taken the place of the furniture and kitschy oceanic photos which once filled the now decrepit space. Sprawled about the floor were canisters of gasoline, the contents of which had been poured all over the mattress he and Helga find themselves tied to with bungee cords.

"This is our duplex. From our vacation."

"Where it all began." Summer continued. "Of course, nobody uses it anymore; not since cheaper motels with better amenities have opened. But yeah, this place and I are almost similar; we've been dead inside for almost twenty years Arnold, or should I say _Dr. Shortman_. Though, I must admit the years have changed _you_ a great deal. A far cry from the scrawny fool that ran away with my chance to be on Babewatch and-"

"Oh my God, you're still on that?!" Helga replied.

"And look what else I caught in my net; the _other_ little twerp." Summer laughs as she pulls the sack off of Helga. "I had a feeling you two would, forgive the expression, _tie the knot_ somewhere down the line-"

"Speaking of which, didn't you have some poor emasculated schmuck serving as your boyfriend/lackey?" Helga asked bitterly.

"Yeah, about that…"

Moving the chair aside, Summer hurls a large trash bag from the other room and hurls its contents in the general direction of her captors. Horror and anger suffocate Helga and Arnold as they watch dismembered hunks of flesh and bone spray from the bag and shower them. Once everything settles, their eyes widen as a severed head slowly rolls forward a foot before stopping and confirming their already heinous suspicions.

"I mean come on, what was I supposed to do?" Asked Summer. "Have him mess_ this_ plan up like he did the contest? It was almost like he wore uselessness like a badge of honor."

"Congratulations."

All eyes fell on Arnold. He could feel his fury slowly building up within him as he turned his eyes away from the jumble of body parts that once was Sandy Colfax and to his captor. His voice was an almost otherworldly-slow and quiet with each syllable feeling like a punch. Even Helga (who had seen and earned in her own right his rage at times as a kid) felt a twinge of fear sensing his body tremble with unfathomable rage.

"My wife gave you too much credit. There is no word for what you are; 'man-eater', 'monster', they barely scratch the surface…And…and to think your daughter endured all this and more…I…I…I have no real choice but to congratulate you Summer. You've invented a whole new, theoretically impossible, level of evil."

"Well I just aim to please." Summer laughs before emitting a wistfully vengeful sigh. "Then again, that comes with growing up in this shit-hole of a town… Spencer Beach is just one giant summer fling, aren't we? You tourists descend like locusts for roughly a quarter of the year to drop in, have your fun and leave. Oh, what we sand fleas up with in the name of money; the crowds, the litter, the disorderly conduct, puke covered streets, eardrum-nuking parties and concerts…the list goes on. Then Labor Day ends, and in the wake of it all we're left to pick up the pieces and horde our fortunes while the place turns into a freaking graveyard."

"Oh, boo-hoo." Helga interjected. "Let me play a sad song for you on the world's smallest violin. Nobody twisted your arm into exploiting preteen tourists, or concocting drawn-out revenge plots over DOA teenage acting ambitions. You live in a town of what, 13 or 15 thousand other upper working-class people who call this place their home all year round? How do _they_ keep their moral compass in spite of lean winters and seeing Spencer Beach being treated like a communal trash can?"

"Or maybe there's something more, isn't there?" Helga continued. "Something personal which goes beyond this sand flea sob-a-polooza you've been feeding us all night?"

"Oh, like either of you'd understand." Summer replied bitterly.

"C'mon! Stories like yours are a dime a dozen; dead end town, probably ruled the roost in high school, closet shrine to your favorite actors, lip-service affirmations of beauty, pedestrian odd job…"

Summer began to feel her already teetering mental state further unravel with each assumption coming from Helga's mouth (all of which was true to one degree or another). An otherworldly heat radiated from her body and filled the room as her left eye twitched with violent fury. Yet through it all, Helga continued to taunt her captor; unaffected to this display after a lifetime of having a someone as tempestuous as Bob for a father. By contrast, Arnold could see Summer on the brink of meltdown, and while all sympathy had long since gone out the door, he inwardly begged any and all deities looking over them to intervene and keep his wife from saying the one thing that would give Summer a reason to barbecue them...a supplication which ended in vain.

"...Hell, even the name 'Summer Love' sounds like a pseudonym that could _only_ be concocted by a mind so juvenilely star-struck that-"

"WELL IT SURE AS SHIT BEATS A NAME LIKE CHASTITY GRANVILLE!"

Arnold and Helga sit in disbelief on the mattress wondering which was thicker in that moment; the cold pall of silence following their captor's outburst, or the ironic juxtaposition of her true birth name with her personality. They watch her seethe violently, clearly worked up from the frenzy, before stumbling back; almost seeing the words flying into the air and realizing she can't stuff them back into her mouth. A white anklet lands in Helga's lap as Summer puts her right shoe back on. On the jewelry she sees the words "Jesus Saves. Still Waters Books" subtly engraved on the piece.

"Ah, so it's the 'hyper religious parental units' cliché which struck a nerve." Helga chortled. "But seriously, 'Chastity'?! You're telling me…your parents named you…'CHAST-'?!"

"Surely, you didn't think I was going to keep my name once I dumped this place for the celebrity and fortune I know I deserve?" Summer began venomously as she gagged Helga and doused with a fresh layer of gasoline. "No. As far as Hollywood is concerned, Chastity Granville belongs in some dumpy little house on the prairie chopping firewood or milking goats. But Summer Love...oh, Summer Love evokes the promise of thrills, passion and fun in the sun. Alas, the highway of success is riddled with the most onerous tollbooths."

"And I guess your conscience was part of that payment, wasn't it?" Arnold interjected bitingly.

"Aww, the view from the moral high ground must be so nice." Summer cooed sarcastically while turning to Arnold. "Tell me, would I be treated to this same self-righteous rigidity if I was one of your FUBAR kiddie cases?"

"Humor me. I dare you."

With a sigh, Summer reclines on the floor and screws her face into an exaggerated childlike smile.

* * *

(Flashback Summer POV)

_Keith and Christine Granville were the perfect pie-eyed power couple at Bible College; young, idealistic, brimming with zeal for Christ. Yet rather than go off and evangelize to the masses in Godless Russia or some dark corner of the jungle, they opened up the Still Waters Books and Gifts hoping to save the souls of Spring Breakers and other tourists whom they believed were unknowingly begging to accept Jesus Christ despite the lures of temptation in this so-called 'Sodom by the Sea.' _

_As their only child, I was expected to live my life as a reflection of them—ESPECIALLY for the sake of the customers, such as they were. If they gave out awards for 'most avoided place during tourist season, our little emporium of woe would be the undefeated champion. I mean… sure we got by financially via the occasional grandparent stopping in every now and again to pick up a Fruity Fables video for their kid's crotch dumpling; but let's be honest, our competitor tourist traps sold beer bongs, obscene tank tops and other kinds of mementos people actually __wanted__. _

_Naturally, by adolescence I began to rebel against being the good Christian princess mommy and daddy tried to raise. Ah those days I spent, sauntering about the boardwalk in the most scandalous halter-tops money could buy, sneaking into bars, gypping claw machines at the arcade, and making passes at any and all boys catching my eye…then sometime after my thirteenth birthday I ran into this sweet but simple fifteen-year-old named Sandy who was serving as a location scout for this ocean crime drama called Babewatch, and in time I would accompany him in his excursions. _

_Unfortunately, being on the fringes of this little Mount Olympus could only get me so far. Any roles available, scarce as they were, weren't exactly scene stealing material; "Surf School Girl #5", "Funnel Cake Stand Chippie", "Rave Babe #3" and my favorite "Girl who shouts 'eek!'". All the __real__ walk-on roles went to girls whose Stepford Wife moms had money to burn on __fast-talking agents- _

* * *

"The snobby bitches you wished you really were!" A muffled Helga interjected before receiving a kick to the abdomen.

"Anyway." Summer continued. "Just when all hope seemed lost, some hot-shot went to the municipal office and proposed a once in a lifetime walk-on role grand prize for that year's sand castle contest as a way of increasing tourism. Enter Arnold the pie-eyed tourist looking for a summer adventure; between a killer talent for building sand castles, and a prepubescent mind sizzling with all these new and confusing feelings for girls, you practically had 'Patsy' branded on your forehead-"

"-And you would have gotten away with it, were it not for those meddling kids! I know. I know. I know."


	14. The Brink of the Abyss

Empty.

If there was one word that could best sum up Kamala as she stood in the threshold, it would be empty. Her face conveyed all the emotion of granite and her breathing bought to mind a metronome pendulating back and forth. Her posture seemed robotic and her clothing almost clung to her frame as if she had taken a week long nap in it. Rivulets of dried blood wormed their way along her forehead and down her left cheek. The only sense of color on the otherwise pallid slab that was her skin.

Arnold looked at Kamala with fear. As much as she possessed a caustic level of preadolescent swagger from years of neglect, there was still that desire underneath it all to be a happier person (or at the very least tone down her act into something more palatable). Now the walls they had broken down in therapy had been rebuilt with a vengeance, and her emotional health teetered like an anvil on a fraying rope.

Helga looked at Kamala with empathy. Though Arnold never explicitly mentioned his work with her, the genetic connection between the girl and their captor spoke volumes. From there, flashes of her own dysfunctional family dynamic danced in the eye of Helga's mind; spurring a wave of sympathy for horrors real and imagined this girl had endured.

Summer looked at Kamala and laughed.

"Alright Kamala, this is cute and all, but get back in the van."

Rather than listen, the young girl didn't budge; offering not even a blink to her mother's order.

"Ok, let's try again." Summer began condescendingly. "Kamala, this is a gasoline-soaked mattress. This is a lighter. When the fire from the lighter goes on the mattress, we all burn to death."

"And that's supposed to frighten me? Or are you the only Love around here who owns the whole 'being dead inside' thing?"

"How _DARE _you…I am your mother-"

"Yes. In the loosest, most basic definition, you are my mother." Kamala interjected tonelessly as she fully entered the room. "Just as much as Sandy was a father by _those_ most basic definitions. But apart from the whole 'carrying me in your womb' thing, every action you've undertaken is as cheap and hollow as your makeup."

"You ungrateful little-" Summer began.

"Oh, I know every arrow in your quiver." Kamala quipped quickly before her mother could continue. "'_I fed you_.' Yes, but our food came from whatever excess or soon-to-reach-sell by date foodstuffs the restaurant didn't throw away. '_I clothed you_'. Yes, but they were all discarded excess shirts which, once again, the restaurant didn't want to acknowledge as a profit loss; or if I was really lucky, secondhand clothes from the goodwill store-"

"Yeah well, I'm sorry we're _sooooo_ poor." Summer replied sarcastically. "Then again I wouldn't expect you to have the maturity to fully grasp all the sacrifices I've made given that opportunity doesn't exactly grow on trees on Spencer Bea-"

"And yet you _stayed_ at Spencer Beach!" Kamala scoffed. "For any sensible person, it would have dawned on them that maybe it's not too late to pick up a new skill, take a couple of classes, get at least a GED and do something more with their life, but that's not how the story of Summer Love goes does it? You hung around at that glorified titty bar, nuking your future, in the hopes that Donny Helfenbein or the real Kamala Ellison would rip down the door and whisk you off to stardom. You clung to a long-since stillborn dream of being the next big thing to hit Hollywood all while dragging my life down with you in the process. And now thanks to your 'maturity' and 'sacrifice'; Sandy is dismembered, a child psychologist and his wife are hostages in a dilapidated beach house, and your daughter is holding a loaded weapon...(She pauses to reveal a .44 caliber pistol in her right hand much to Arnold and Helga's already overworked sense of unease)... All this because you were too busy being dead inside to realize you're killing me before I had a chance to live!"

Having stomached all she could of her daughter's defiance, Summer furiously barreled towards Kamala; only stopping as she quickly raises her weapon and brandishes it within inches of her mother's face; jabbing the piece deeper into the bridge of her mother's nose. Yet rather than be frightened by this reality, Summer's face curls into a haughty sneer and her eyes become as steely as a December road with black ice.

"Do it…Well, what are you waiting for a written invitation? If I'm such a rotten mother surely each breath I draw is a waste… PULL! THE! TRIGGER! KAMALA!"

Summer's laughter echoes around Kamala's insides unnerving her greatly. Her mother was by no stretch the picture of maternal warmth or affection, but goading the girl into committing an act of homicide was a whole other ballgame. After ten seconds of intense silence, Kamala lowers the gun and throws it at the feet of Arnold and Helga's mattress before joining them. Her once featureless face suddenly breaks into a strained smile while silent tears cascaded across her cheeks, blotting into the collar of her shirt.

"So that's how it is then?" Summer says derisively.

"Yes." Kamala replied in a soft but firm tone. "I don't know what my future will hold, but I'm not letting it end on your account."

"Famous last words."

With the flick of her finger, a little flame shoots from Summer's lighter as she rushes towards the Shortmans with all the speed and motivation a child descending on a busted piñata. In just as much of a flash, Kamala headbutts her mother, sending her flying back and landing on her ass; knocking the lighter out of her hands in the process. Disoriented and enraged, Summer quickly gropes around for her flare; but before her fingers could completely grasp it the sound of a single gunshot fills the room.

Then another.


	15. I'm Going Through Changes

_Kamala Ellison Love was beyond Dr. Shortman's paygrade. _

_Nobody would dare dispute his work thus far with her. He had made much progress in getting the girl behaviorally back on track. However between the story of Summer Love beginning to enter public knowledge and the image of Kamala's thousand-yard stare illumined only by the blaring red-and blue lights of the town's police and paramedics irrevocably etched into the memories of those at the scene, it was clear that any further help that Dr. Shortman could possibly provide as her therapist was only going to scratch the surface of her troubles. _

_Then again, what do you expect when you have to shoot your mother? _

_From the backseat of the police cruiser, Kamala watched as officers cuffed her histrionic mother's wrist to the stretcher before it got loaded onto the adjacent ambulance. She would go on to survive her far from fatal wounds (the first shot grazed her wrist while the second came to rest a little north of her right knee) and be tried in a court of law for murder, attempted murder, kidnapping, child abuse, and forgery. The verdict was guilty on all counts. _

_As the police escorted Summer out of the courtroom, Arnold watched as a small wave of relief came and went on Kamala's face. While she took comfort knowing her mother would pay dearly and no longer be a presence in her life, it didn't change the fact that her future was a nebulous void from here on out as a ward of the State. Even without her past behavioral issues, she knew the chances of getting adopted were miniscule to begin what with being on the cusp of adolescence. Throw in the possible chance of a potential guardianship seeker with exploitive intentions for adopting girls coming for her and the picture only got grimmer. _

_As if like lightning, a thought occurred to Arnold about how he could help._

* * *

(Three Months Later)

Savas Koukuzis was an early riser as it stood, but as the first cracks of dawn broke along the Spencer Beach coastline, he gave the tables a final wipe down and prepared the purple and orange fruit drink dispenser, two of the many final touches for a special get together his restaurant was to host.

Looking through the window, he could see Kamala outside leaning on the barrier overlooking the beach and drinking in that same sunrise. Since Savas offered to take her as the adoption process made its way through the system, she had been nothing short of an asset in assisting him with little tasks in the restaurant here and there, and were the circumstances different, he would gently but firmly remind her that there was still stuff to be done before she could go out and about.

"It's her last sunrise here." He whispers to himself. "Let her enjoy."

* * *

Rodney's bicycle speeds down the boardwalk, brazenly blowing past the giant sign forbidding such vehicles en route to its final destination. Once beside the blue and white awning, he comes to a stop and takes off his helmet before making his way towards Kamala as she breathes some final whiffs of the salty ocean air she'd known all her life."

"Morning there early bird." She says with a droll smile. "Nothing is going down until 8."

"Yeah, I figure I'd beat the rush…so, last official boardwalk sunrise as a Sand Flea?"

"Yep. Tomorrow's sunrise and all my sunrises hereafter will be in the city of Hillwood."

Rodney climbs on the ledge and seats himself near Kamala.

"It's odd when the boardwalk is quiet." He remarks.

"Yeah." Kamala says. "But for the first time in my life, I don't mind it being like this. In fact, as much as I'm out here and all that, I'm not going to miss the boardwalk as much as I thought I would. Don't get me wrong. My memories with you guys are irreplaceable, and when we visit again during the summer season I'll always feel at home among the hustle and bustle…but…it's not the source of respite I need it to be anymore."

Rodney gives his friend a perplexed look before Kamala continues. As she tries to articulate her feelings, the two of them spot a hermit crab scurrying near the steps where the boardwalk meets the shore to switch shells. Once comfortably in its new home, the creature continues its trek.

"See that crab there? I'm sure that old shell protected its crab from its fair share of danger and allowed it some shred of anonymity in an eat-or-be-eaten world. But the crab grows, and has to reassess its life in that particular covering. This bustling boardwalk served a similar purpose; I could dissolve into the faceless throng of thrill seekers, and comfort myself in the soundtrack of their inane chitchat. But now, I am Kamala, and I have no reason to want to hide anymore."

Rodney got up from the railing and bounded down the steps to retrieve the shell.

"I didn't have time to get you a moving away gift. I hope you-"

He didn't have to say anything further. As the shell made its way from his hand to hers, Kamala leans in and plants a kiss on Rodney's cheek.

"Aww, now isn't that ever so sweet?"

The children scoot away from each other at breakneck speed and look up bashfully to see a pair of women making their way out of their car. The one who spoke was a redheaded lady in overalls and a long-sleeved green and white t-shirt. Hand in hand, she walked with her companion; an equally attractive blonde lady in jean-patterned leggings and a purple/indigo tank top with white frilly lace on the bottom. Holding her hair back was a simple black headband.

"Kamala dearie." The blonde lady inquires. "You never told us you had a special little friend."

"Oh. I, Uh…I'm Rodney. Rodney Finn."

"Well hello Rodney, I'm Olga and this is my wife Lila. We're Kamala's new mothers."

"It's almost 8am. I'm ever so sure everyone's gathering at the restaurant now." Lila replied.

The four of them entered the restaurant where Mikayla, Nicholas, Evan, Peter and Paul greeted them with hearty applause and embraces. Over the threshold leading to the bathrooms, Adam and Calliope finished hanging up a banner with the words "Goodbye Kamala Pataki-Sawyer!" written in a Greek style font. Kamala's going away party lasted all through the morning and began to wind down by half past noon. As much as Arnold (Good Samaritan that he was) cut Mr. Koukuzis a check in advance to cover the cost for this affair, he still had a business to run and would be damned if he missed the lunch rush. Before long, Kamala seated herself the backseat after exchanging final goodbyes and a group photograph beside Olga and Lila's car. With silent bittersweet tears, she closed her eyes as the revving of the engine drowned out the chorus of farewells.

* * *

"Kamala…Wake up sweetie."

Having slept the entire drive to Hillwood, Kamala groggily rubs at her eyes and looks out the window to see an imposing three-story brownstone painted in a nice shade of lilac; a far cry from the cramped bungalow she had known all her life. Like a fish swimming curiously around a new aquarium, the girl flits about the house in disbelief once the three of them fully enter the establishment. She scuttles about the corridor peeking about each room in bewilderment; their kitchen with foodstuffs that came from an actual grocery store as well as modest china and utensils to eat from. Their orderly and modestly supplied den which doubled as a teaching space for music tutoring (as evidenced by the piano in the rear). The real centerpiece of the room however being Olga and Lila's wedding portrait on the steps of their home as wife and wife.

The real blow however came after Kamala bounded up the stairs and came upon a crocheted rag-doll style clown bearing the sign "Kamala's Room." The once rapid momentum she exhibited since passing the threshold came to an abrupt halt. Once upon a time, such a saccharine display would inspire feelings of rage to say the least, and while such urges swirled within her, they seemed cowed by a stronger sense of curiosity which won out when she decided to gently push the door open. The air of innocence weakened her to the core; blue wallpaper with little yellow hearts seemed to give off an inviting glow which pulled her further past the threshold. A beautifully carved wooden wardrobe stood to the left of the door facing a pink spray-painted foot locker monogrammed with the initials K.P.S. in contrasting Robin's Egg Blue. A little lamp hung from the ceiling beneath a comfortable twin sized bed. On the wall hung a mirror from which she could see the trembling reflection of Olga in the doorway followed by Lila ready to offer her comfort/a reality check.

"The last three families who owned the house had little girls." Olga began. "I…know the style is a little juvenile…but I hope that…for the time being…"

But Kamala had no time to listen to her new mother fuss over such pettiness. Flying across the room, she wraps her arms around Olga and nuzzles into her shoulder in hopes of having something to absorb the oncoming tears she is about to shed.

"It's fine." Kamala said while gesturing Lila to join in. "Thank you. Both of you, thank you."

* * *

(That Night)

9:45pm

While Olga and Lila slept like logs in the master bedroom, Kamala still found herself unable to fully doze off. Hanging over her head like a sword on fraying rope was a simple but powerful question:

Now What?

As much as childhood at Spencer Beach was a tarpit of trauma and abuse, it had been up to now the only sense of grounding she had in her decade and then some of existence. The world was only going to get bigger and stranger from this point forward. As much as her first circle of friends came about in adolescence, who was to say she could replicate the same rapports at PS 118? Throw in the fact that it would still be a while before she could feel confident in realizing that loving families, nice houses, and food that wasn't surplus/unsellable restaurant stock weren't just ethereal projections from her dreams; or a cruel joke that was going to be taken away from her at any moment.

As quietly as a mouse, Kamala rises herself up and makes her way to the second door in her room; a humble closet with a trapdoor which when opened revealed an ascending set of steps.

The Pataki-Sawyer attic was nothing spectacular all in all. In fact, other than assorted Christmas decorations and a small collection of trophies, it was rather empty all things considered.

A sudden breeze blows through the space, dislodging a manila envelope laying on the beams. It floats through the air coming to rest at the base of an immense trophy from the city-wide spelling bee. A monogram of the letters H.G.P. had been furiously scrawled upon the face of the covering with black marker. Once back in her room, Kamala opens the envelope and discovers a marble covered notebook and an irreparably mutilated paper doll almost identical to the one on her doorway. In piecing the corrupted craft together, she found her quandary of who H.G.P. was partially answered.

"Aunt Helga's Room." She whispers while opening the journal.

By now, Helga Pataki's role in linking the bloodlines of her adoptive mother Olga to her former psychologist was nothing new. Nonetheless, Kamala found herself taken aback by the portrait of her Aunt back in the day; the pigtails that spit in the eye of gravity, the pink jumper and white tee combo that launched her 15 minutes of fashion world fame, the scowl only pulled off by someone enduring a lifetime of mental abuse, and (of course) the iconic pink bow.

With only the feeble light of her phone to illumine the room, Kamala began to read Helga's musings. To say the contents of Helga's journal spoke to her didn't begin to cover it; the girl's soul shook with just how eerily similar Helga's situation was back then to hers' in the present; here too was a girl on the cusp of puberty reeling in the knowledge that everything she'd ever known in life (sucky and turbulent though it may be) had been stripped away because one parent was too stubborn to move past what made them feel important and the other was too cowed to put up any real resistance.

Yet while it began as a screed of righteous fury against her family for being the collection of neglectful and self-absorbed basket cases they were, teenage Helga's manifesto suddenly took a turn for the pensive. The major motif she seemed to reflect on was how the disguise wears _you_ after a while; a revelation that came after giving into her hateful impulses and tearing to shreds the innocent craft harlequin whose only crime was happily greeting one and all to a place that no longer existed.

In the doll's silent smile, Helga could hear the betrayed voice a Germanic caregiver reminding her of the consequences that came with pushing people away.

In her own heart, Helga could feel the temper of her father for whom she professed nothing sort of vitriol.

In her darkest imagination, Helga could see her classmates circling like hungry vultures waiting for her last shred of braggadocio to expire.

By the final page, Kamala could feel sleep slowly beginning to conquer her; her eyelids seemed to get heavier and heavier with each blink until they came together for the last time until morning. Her body reflexively gravitated backwards before coming to rest on the comfortable pillows. And in the ultimate act of taking her Aunt's words to heart, she cuddled the journal close to her chest, reflecting on those last musings before fully surrendering to sleep.

**It's almost dawn now. If I had the power to stop the sun from rising, I would have done so a long time ago; knowing that each day would be a new argument with Bob, a new hole for Miriam to crawl out of, a new benchmark from Olga that I know I'd never live up to. But I don't. Where my power lies really is (if you'll forgive the choice of words) taking life one day at a time.**

**My burden is a heavy burden, and it can only come apart just as it had been constructed; piece by piece. I'm not going to come to school next week skip-a-dee-doin' in the halls and crapping rainbows and sprinkles where I please. Nor will I hold my breath waiting for that super theatrical moment where my one action and one action alone will turn my tough blustery exterior to ashes. But I got to start somewhere, maybe with Phoebe; she's been my rock through life and more than anyone knows what I'm all about. She seems to be chummy lately with Gerald, and somewhere in my withered raisin of a heart I wish them luck because its things like that which make me want to be better. That a tomorrow will come where I won't have to gaze longingly at my locket or worry about how my capability to love someone (on any level) can be misconstrued as weakness. **

**So, goodnight room. Whatever the future my hold for me, be it good or be it worse, my only hope now is that you play host to a happier and better adjusted child. Someone who can truly appreciate the aura of innocence and security you evoke. Where the yellow and blue hearts won't have to mask a heart corrupted and soiled as mine. **

**The End **


End file.
